Grounded

You've had this cold for two weeks now,  the doctor tells me patiently as he reaches for a syringe and fills it, just prior to adding a needlessly tacky (albeit accurate) remark about my age - and you're not twenty any more.  You don't just throw it off in three days like you used to.


There's a quick and painless jab to my hip.  It's the second one that stings.


If it moves into your lungs, he continues, paying absolutely no attention to my "Ouch!" of protest, then it's walking pneumonia or you end up in the hospital.  So here's the plan.  He steps back and crosses his arms, giving me his dead serious look, the one that has no bargaining room.


You're officially grounded. For the whole weekend.  Except for coming here for another shot tomorrow and another one on Sunday.  In the meantime, it's bed rest and fluids.  Cancel your plans, reschedule whatever you need to.  You won't be tap dancing by Monday but...... he gives my red, raw nose and watery eyes a critical look..... you might feel and look a little less like death on a stick.


The protest I'm about to make at missing a third night of music dies in a coughing spasm and wins me an I told you so look.  I gather my Hall's, my box of Puffs, my purse and my ipod and give him a grudging thank you then head for the door.  It irritates the fire out of me when he's right and throws that medical school stuff at me.


Several hours later, 4am rolls around and I wake - headachy and still congested, bleary eyed but breathing a little easier and coughing a little less.  I tend the animals, drink a bottle and a half of water, and crawl back under the covers.  I haven't been grounded since I was twelve and I'm caught halfway between resenting it and being grateful.


Doctors.
Death on a stick.
Not being twenty anymore.


Ouch.